


Invincible

by 221believeintheworld



Category: Original Work
Genre: 1940's slang, I tried to be historically accurate, World War II, historical fiction - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-14 07:16:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4555596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221believeintheworld/pseuds/221believeintheworld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Luke Macias, like many young men, believed with the arrogance of youth that he had his whole life before him, full of wonderful experiences and opportunities. Unfortunately,1941 is a rather dangerous time to be a young man. Luke gets drafted. It changes things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Draft

**Author's Note:**

> This story began with a creative writing exercise. A random name generator gave me the name Luke Macias, and his story grew from there. AP US history helped a bit, too.

Luke Macias was riding his bike home from school. His bookbag, filled with homework, was slung across his shoulder. He probably rode a bit faster than was advised on the dirt road: if he hit a stray rock, he’d go flying. But road was familiar to him and, like so many other young men, he believed he was invincible.   
The sun shone out of a crystal blue sky and Luke’s sandy blonde hair blew in the gentle breeze. He carefully reached out to run his fingers through the silky wheat stalks. They rippled in the wind and shone in the sun all around him; Luke was riding through a golden sea. He swerved a bit to avoid a pothole, suddenly grabbing the handlebars with both hands. He laughed triumphantly as he regained his balance and raced along the dirt road that wound lazily through the glittering sea of wheat.   
Luke’s school clothes were hopelessly rumpled by now: his pristine brown trousers and white shirt would need to be repressed. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. The white collar of his shirt poked out underneath a dark blue sweatervest, which Luke had worn to protect himself from the chilly April morning. Luke had the kind of face that kept on smiling, even when he wasn’t. He had permanent laugh lines etched around his eyes. His blonde hair was just starting to become highlighted in lighter, golden streaks with the spring sunshine. His face and the nape of his neck were tan from long hours out on the farm during the summers, which made his blue eyes stand out bluer, piercing in their brightness.   
Finally, the familiar white farm house, swept clean and smiling in the sun, came into view. Behind it the huge red barn sighed, unimpressed with the spring day. A huge oak tree towered over the farmhouse, shading it with its budding green leaves.   
Luke rode right up to the house, leaning his bike on the huge oak’s trunk and running up the steps to the front door. He waltzed into the front room, toeing off his shoes and setting his bookbag by the stairs to be brought up later when Luke did his homework.   
Luke turned left into the kitchen, only to stop short at the sight of his mother crying at the kitchen table. An official-looking letter was clutched in her hand, the familiar logo of the US military stamped proudly in the center.   
Luke’s heart dropped, his face paling white. He shut his eyes tight and sighed, then opened them and smiled brightly.   
He approached his mother and tenderly put his arm around her shoulders.   
“Hey, ma, shhh…”   
He rubbed her back soothingly. She shuddered with sobs, unable to even look at Luke.   
“It’s only a draft, not the end of the world,” Luke reassured her, “I’ll just skip over and whip those Germans- be home before Christmas, okay?”   
Luke’s mother suddenly turned, hugging him tightly and burying her head in his shoulder. He shut his eyes and hugged her back just as hard, wishing with all his heart that he really was invincible.


	2. North Africa

Six months later, Luke’s muscles ached with hours of exertion, and still there was no end in sight. The hot desert wind blew sand into into all the crevices of his uniform, combining with his sweat to cover Luke in a muddy layer of grime. His face had turned dark with sun and dirt; his brilliant blue eyes squinted under the rim of his standard-issue helmet. His feet chafed in his combat boots.  
The rugged north African terrain, mostly shimmering sand dotted with sparse scrubs and hills, stretched for miles around them. He and his platoon were marching single file across the vast desert, scouting ahead to seek out hidden German camps. It was 1942, and the Pats and Brits were trying to push the Nazis out of their hold on north Africa.  
Luke sighed. He’d seen a bit of action in his six months in the military, mostly in boot camp, but hardly anything had happened since he’d been deployed to the desert. Every day, he and his platoon went on patrols, and every day they marched around for nothing.  
The platoon was beginning to slow, the men bored and lagging in the blazing sun. The commanding officer, a stern, white-haired Brit with a chiseled jawline and fierce determination, decided to pick up the pace.  
“Keep sharp, and move your asses, Tommies!” The officer glared at his men as he marched ahead, the soldiers struggling to keep up. “The Nazis could be anywhere…”  
Luke had yet to see a Nazi since coming to Africa. He was beginning to think this was some sort of secret test as part of their training.They were approaching a sparse, prickly grouping of shrubs, beyond which a hill rose slightly. The soldier behind Luke, a fast-talking Yankee from upstate New York, jogged to catch up with him.  
“Ol’ general’s a little grumpy today, huh?” he muttered to Luke, pulling off his helmet and wiping the sweat from his eyes. “Everyone knows there ain’t no Nazis in this goddamn desert for miles. Wish I’d got deployed somewhere where they’re actually fighting the war.”  
Luke chuckled. “Orders are orders. Patrols may be like laying an egg, but at least no one’s trying to shoot my face off.”  
The Yankee slung his arm around Luke’s shoulders. “You’re a wiser man than me, Mr. Macias.”  
A shot echoed through the desert as the Yankee jerked his head backwards, falling in slow motion onto his back and pulling Luke backwards with him. Luke stumbled up, gazing in horror at the man’s forehead, where a perfect circle shone red with blood, glittering in the unforgiving sun. Luke stood frozen, unable to comprehend his general’s shouts.  
“I SAID GET DOWN, BOY!” the general screamed as he tackled Luke, bringing both of them down in the patch of scrubs, where the rest of the platoon watched the hillside in front of them in trepidation on their bellies.  
The sniper’s shot rang out again, the deadly accurate bullet hitting a man to Luke’s right in the shoulder. The man cried out, the ground around him quickly growing dark with blood. The general, immediately to Luke’s left, fiercely whispered to the man to press his hand into the wound as hard as he could to stop the bleeding until they could get out. The man nodded, groaning in pain and he clutched his shoulder. His breathing was heavy, punctuated by periodic moans of pain.  
As they lay there in the shimmering heat of the desert, unable to move for fear of death, the man slowly grew quieter and quieter until he lapsed into an ominous silence.  
The general told them they would have to stay put until nightfall, when they could sneak away without the sniper seeing. But after two hours, just as the sun was beginning to set, the platoon had heard nothing from the other side of the hill. A boy about Luke’s age spoke up from the front of the group, his voice scratchy from too little water and carrying a drawl from his Louisiana upbringing.  
“There ain’t no one here!” he called over his shoulder, “We’re just sittin’ here, bakin’ in the sun for no goddamn reason. Let’s go, general, there ain’t nothin’ there.”  
The general stiffened next to Luke. “Keep your ass down, soldier. Nobody moves until I say so.” He radiated experience and authority, and Luke straightened under the weight of his tone.  
Apparently the general did not have the same effect on the boy from Louisiana. “Screw this,” he muttered, beginning to shift in the dirt, “I didn’t sign up to be a sitting duck. I’m gettin’ out of here.”  
“No! Don’t move an inch, boy, not a single muscle!”  
The boy started to get up, bringing himself up from the sanctuary of the dirt.  
“I mean it! GET DOWN!”  
The boy stood up, brushing the dirt off his uniform. He hefted his pack up over his back, slung his rifle up over his shoulder. He grinned cockily at the general.  
“See, General? There ain’t nothing-”  
His chest exploded as the sniper’s gun rang out into the darkening day. Luke gasped, clenching his teeth and fists and squeezing his eyes shut. He breathed heavily through his clenched teeth, and obediently waited until the general said so to get up and leave.


	3. France

Luke’s face was covered in mud, his blue eyes glittering in the reflection of the bombs exploding around him. He was dragging a fellow soldier who had been hit in the leg away from the fray, away from the turmoil behind them and towards the safety of their trench.   
It unnerved Luke to have his back facing the enemy, but he moved as quickly as he could. The man he was dragging, still a boy, groaned in pain. He reminded Luke of that day he and his platoon were caught by a sniper in north Africa, the first time Luke had witnessed death. Luke remembered his naivety, having just finished training. God, he was only a kid then. The boy’s groans brought back painful memories. It seemed lifetimes ago.   
Now a captain, it was Luke’s job to get his boy to safety.   
“Hush now, boy, the Germans’ll hear you all the way in Berlin. It’s not all bad. As soon as we get you back, you’ll be all patched up and good as new in a few weeks. Your million dollar wound, right?”   
The boy sniffed, nodding along with Luke’s words as Luke half-helped, half-carried him quickly across the muddy terrain. Their boots squished with each step, frequently getting caught. The boy yelped each time Luke had to pull his injured leg out of the mire.   
At last, the trench was in sight. Luke steered left, stumbling down towards the corner where the wounded were taken in for field treatment. A young corporal jumped out quickly to help Luke deliver the boy to safety. With the corporal and the boy both back in the trench and the boy taken care of, Luke turned back to rejoin what was left of his platoon.   
It had been a bitter few months since D-Day. So much preparation, energy, and sacrifice had gone into that day that Luke had almost believed that that would be the end, the climax of this neverending war. He forgot that once he got into France, he would have to fight his way though.   
At the moment, Luke and his men were fighting in the forests of northern France, taking German camps by surprise one at a time, usually under the cover of night. They’d been fairly successful: Luke became known as a sort of expert on these nighttime hit-and-run missions. But their luck ran out, for this particular camp was waiting for them. Luke had immediately called for reinforcements, and he hadn’t left this small clearing for almost five days now. The German camp was in complete shambles, burnt down by a flamethrower team, and both sides had turned to ugly, down-and-dirty trench warfare. But orders were orders, and now Luke had the duty of responsibility for his men.   
Before running back into the fray, Luke took a deep breath, looking up through the edges of trees at the stars. They were magnificent here in the French wilderness, with so few lights to drown out their brilliance. The Milky Way painted a bright stripe in the lower half of the sky, meandering its way through the heavens. Luke stared into the billions of little points of light, becoming almost dizzy with the sheer number of them.   
He used to do this when he was little; used to lay down under the big oak tree in his yard and stare at the stars. He’d always found them calming, an undeniable constant in the world that he could return to. The same stars that Luke had taken comfort in at home in Nebraska were shining now as well, brighter than ever before.   
Luke closed his eyes for a moment, allowing himself the rare indulgence of remembering home. He remembered the big white farmhouse, and the red barn, and the glittering seas of wheat. He remembered his ma, trying to keep a brave face as he prepared for deployment after the tears on the day of his draft. He remembered holding her as she sobbed and his promise, that he’d whip the Germans and be home by Christmas. Well, he’d whipped plenty of Germans by now, but three Christmases had passed since he’d seen his mother. He remembered her holding him as tightly and she could and him holding her right back. He remembered wishing he were invincible.   
Luke opened his eyes, coming back to the war raging around him. He shook his head to clear it and began to jog up the slight rise of earth protecting the trench from direct fire.   
Just as Luke reached the crest of the hill, he heard the tell-tale whistle of an incoming bomb. He looked up just in time to watch its fall, landing with brutish deadliness about fifty feet in front of Luke. He saw the wall of fire rushing towards him, but by the time the earth-shattering bang of the explosion reached him, Luke’s world had gone black.


	4. Home

Luke Macias was, once again, coming home. Instead of a bookbag, he carried an army-issued duffle bag full of clothes and scarring memories he’d rather forget. He traveled slowly down the meandering dirt road, taking time to truly appreciate the clear blue sky and the calm sea of wheat. He carefully plucked a silky stalk, running it through his fingers again and again as we walked.   
He stopped and dropped the wheat when he saw the big white farmhouse come into view. It was just the same as he remembered it, as though it had diligently awaited his return for the last four years.   
Luke passed under the huge oak tree, its loving shade shielding him once again. He slowly climbed the front steps and paused on the front porch. He almost brought his fist to the door before stopping himself. He took a deep breath, then knocked hesitantly.   
He heard footsteps from inside and held his breath as the door opened.   
Upon seeing him for the first time in four years, Luke’s mother quickly brought her hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp. The man before her had terribly blistered skin all down the right side of his face, continuing down his neck into his military uniform. His right hand, as well, had the same angry, blistered skin. Her eyes traveled back up to the man’s face, to the familiar laugh lines still preserved on the left, though the ones on the right had been burned off. She took in the sandy blonde hair, still cut in a military buzz cut. Finally, she recognized the sparking blue eyes, more brilliant in person than in any of the times she’d imagined them over the last four years.   
Luke cracked a small smile. “Hey, ma,” he said softly.   
“Oh, Luke!” his mother cried, tears welling in her eyes, “Oh, thank God…”  
She threw her arms around him, holding her son as tightly as she could. Luke dropped his duffle bag on the front stoop, and hugged her back.


End file.
